


you'll be on my jockey team

by ships_to_sail



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Patrick's Bad Day, Silliness as David's Unexplored Kink, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23160031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ships_to_sail/pseuds/ships_to_sail
Summary: “I’m serious, David. You could — you could do that,” Patrick gestures at the screen, where the bass drop of Ginuwine’s “Pony” coincides with Channing Tatum grinding into some kind of power tool, sparks flying. David’s laugh behind him is loud, and bright, and Patrick’s ears turn pink. He didn’t think it’d been that funny. “Okay, maybe not with the power tools.”
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 15
Kudos: 184





	you'll be on my jockey team

**Author's Note:**

> all the love in the world to [storieswelove ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storieswelove/pseuds/storieswelove) and [samwhambam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samwhambam/pseuds/samwhambam), without whom this silly little thing would have been way sillier and even less of a thing.

The first installment in Patrick’s No Good Very Bad Day comes when he opens the milk for his morning Earl Grey tea and manages to pour in a hefty dollop before he realizes that, actually, milk shouldn’t ‘dollop’ to begin with. He dumps the entire thing down the drain — including the spoiled milk — with a pinched face and not enough time to brew a second cup before he’s due to open the store. 

Undercaffeinated and mildly annoyed at himself, he rolls into lunch with a pretty grumpy chip on his shoulder. The chip only gets bigger when an order mixup with Twyla and Ronnie means Ronnie leaves with her lunch intact and unburnt and Patrick isn’t so lucky. Strike two against the entire day. 

Luckily, the store is slow and he’s able to finish putting the finishing touches on several spreadsheets, vendor contracts, and even the plans for a surprise getaway for he and David’s first wedding anniversary before close. He's just clicking confirm at one of the rooms at the Sherwood Motel with a fond, reminiscent little smile when he notices the time and he sort of bounce-steps to the door and flips the 'open' sign to 'closed'. He’s distracted, thinking about the contents of the fridge and what he can make for dinner, so much so that he doesn’t even notice his key isn’t all the way in the lock of the store's front door before he gives it a sharp, precise little turn and somehow manages to break the metal off entirely. He stares at the stub of broken key in his hand and tries to breathe through the sudden plunging of his stomach as he realizes the potential hours this is about to add to his night. 

Hanging his head, he makes his way across the street in search of Bob, the first person he thinks of who might have the tools he needs. Which, of course, Bob doesn’t, but he does know someone who does, and a scant two hours later Patrick is finally dragging himself through the front door of their apartment, not even bothering to lift his head as the delicious smell of bacon wafts around him. 

“Oh, my god,” David says, his back to the stove and spatula in hand. He’s got a floral apron that Marci gave him for Christmas tied around his neck, protecting the heather grey and cream sleep shirt he’s wearing to cook their dinner in. “Patrick, what’s wrong?”

“Long day,” he says, pressing a kiss to David’s cheek and snatching a piece of bacon off the plate sitting on the counter. It burns his fingers, so it shoves it in his mouth, where it proceeds to burn his tongue. “What’s with the bacon?”

“Well. You weren’t here to cook, so,” David chews on the inside of his cheek and lifts a shoulder in a shy little shrug that still tugs at Patrick’s heartstrings like an anchor on a lede line. 

“Brinner? Really?”

“Well, you don’t have to eat it if you’re not hungry,” David turns around with an injured little sniff, poking at the omelete that’s gently cooking on the stove. Patrick wraps his arms around David’s waist and pushes up on his toes to rest his chin in the crook where David’s neck meets his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, David,” he says gently, pressing up infinitesimally closer to nip at David’s earlobe, pressing his nose to the soft stretch of skin just beneath his ear and breathe in the scent of everything that made David who he was. David shrugs his shoulder, constantly ticklish, but Patrick felt the muscles in David’s body relax where he was pressed up against his back.

“It’s okay. You look like you’ve had a hell of a day.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Do I want to know the half of it?”

“Let’s just say we owe Gwen’s cousin’s brother’s girlfriend’s locksmith a pretty hefty store discount.”

“Okay,  _ which one is Gwen _ ?” David says, eternally frustrated because any time he asks all anyone does is laugh. Which Patrick does, sliding down until his forehead is pressed against David’s spine, in between his shoulder blades.

“You know what, I’m starving, and I’m exhausted. Dinner in front of the TV tonight?”

“And a bad movie?”

“Define bad.”

“Go grab drinks,” is all David says, a laugh hiding at the back of his throat. Patrick exhales deeply against his back, smile spreading slowly across his cheeks. He nods, shifting his forehead against the smooth skin of David’s back, and let’s go with a tiny, heavy sigh. He grabs himself a beer, and a bottle of something fizzy and fruity and alcoholic for David, and stretches out on the couch to the gentle bustle of David in the kitchen. He feels his eyelids start to drop as the length of the day and the delicious smell of mushrooms and basil settles over him like a blanket. 

“Scootch up,” David says, two plates in hand. Patrick can spy the soft yellow fold of a veggie omelet, and the golden brown edge of his favorite homestyle potatoes, and suddenly he’s absolutely ravished. His stomach says as much, and Patrick tries to push the blush from his cheeks as David just raises an eyebrow and smiles at him fondly. Patrick pulls himself to something resembling a sitting position and reaches out his hand for a plate. 

The omelette is buttery and salty, and the potatoes are crisp, and when Patrick takes his first perfectly layered bite at the same moment that the opening scene to  _ Magic Mike XXL  _ comes across the TV, he feels a certain kind of warmth bloom in his chest. It’s a feeling that reminds him of Christmas mornings and organic wool sweaters. Of David. Comfortable, and lived in, and maybe a little silly, but utterly perfect in its entirety. He closes his eyes as he takes the next bite and feels some of the tension from the day drain out of his shoulders and down his back, like the loosening of a belt. He feels David snuggle down into the couch next to him, and he opens his eyes to glance between David and Channing Tatum in equal measure. 

Or, at least, he thought it was equal measure. Because he’s not even halfway done with his omelette before David’s smile spreads across his face and he raises his eyebrows in that adorably confused, affectedly-offended way he has when he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to. “What?!”

“Nothing,” Patrick says, his eyes snapping back to the TV just in time to see Channing Tatum step away from his drafting table. “Have I ever told you that —” 

“ — I look like the Jewish Channing Tatum? Yes. Yes you have,” David takes a bite of his dinner and Patrick watches a blush settle high on his cheekbones. 

“When?!”

“Your wisdom teeth.”

“Ah,” Patrick smiles and takes his final bite so he doesn’t have to think of something else to say. They’d had a fairly important conversation that day, and then the thing with the birds — the whole endeavor was best left in the medicatedly fuzzy past. “Well. You do.”

“Okay, honey.” David finishes his last bite of dinner and reaches out for Patrick’s plate. Patrick hands it to him and David presses a gentle kiss to his cheek before he stands and heads out to the sink, rinsing off the dishes and popping open the dishwasher. 

“I’m serious, David. You could — you could do that,” Patrick gestures at the screen, where the bass drop of Ginuwine’s “Pony” coincides with Channing Tatum grinding into some kind of power tool, sparks flying. David’s laugh behind him is loud, and bright, and Patrick’s ears turn pink. He didn’t think it’d been  _ that  _ funny. “Okay, maybe not with the power tools.”

He feels David’s hand on his shoulder over the back of the couch. “Patrick. You have seen me dance. Are you honestly telling me you think I could do  _ that _ ?” In a deeply unhelpful coincidence of timing, Channing Tatum does a complicated spin and pops up onto his toes on the screen and yeah, okay, no neither of them could ever hope to do  _ that _ . But, that’s also not really the point of what Patrick had been saying. But, it’s been a long day, and he can feel the weight of it creeping back in around the edges of his chest.

“Nah. I guess not, David. You’re right.” He leans his head to the side, where David’s hand is still resting on his shoulder, nuzzling his knuckles against his cheek. A few beats pass, and something in the air shifts as David’s other hand drifts down, heading for Patrick’s lap, where it grabs the remote and hits the rewind button. “What’re you—” 

“Mmkay, yeah, this is only going to work if you don’t say anything,” David says back quickly, but not unkindly. He gets to the beginning of the dance break and hits play, dropping the remote. The familiar bass line starts again, and David drags his hand across the back of Patrick’s shoulders as he walks from behind the couch and stands in front of Patrick. He’s staring at the floor, and chewing on his lip, but his hips are rolling and he’s got his hands crossed at the wrists in front of him. 

David crowds into Patrick’s space and drops his hands onto his shoulders, which puts his dick right in Patrick’s face and he puts one foot in front, shifts his weight to his back foot, and  _ rolls  _ his body. The phrase  _ body milk  _ floats through Patrick’s brain, but he bites back a laugh, knowing there’s no quicker way to bring all of what’s happening to a grinding stop. Instead, he takes a deep breath and looks up at David from underneath his eyelashes. David manages to meet his eyes, but only before a second before he’s looking at a spot over Patrick’s head and reaching his hands behind him to the collar of his t-shirt. Patrick’s mouth goes dry as the soft silk pulls up and over David’s coppered skin, everything seeming a lot less funny as the temperature in the room suddenly climbs by ten degrees. 

Patrick wants to reach out and touch David, to run his hands over the soft skin of his sides, to feel the gentle indentions of each of his rips, the ripple of gooseflesh that always breaks out when Patrick traces downwards from his navel. But he’s also terrified to break the spell, so he traps an appreciative noise low in the back of his throat and bites into his lower lip. David’s eyes are closed, and he drags a single hand down the front of his chest before his other hand also leaves Patrick’s shoulders and David is braced on the couch behind him, bent over and sort of...swaying, shifting his weight in time to the music above Patrick. He’s got his lips pressed to the soft column of Patrick’s throat, dragging the tip of his tongue in a swirl just below Patrick’s ear, and a soft little ‘oh’ escapes before Patrick can bite it back. When David stands again, he’s got a smug smile on his face and no problem holding Patrick’s eye contact. 

Patrick’s feeling more and more vindicated in his David-as-Channing opinions when David manages to sort of slide onto his lap in time with a “ride it, my pony,” his knees bracing Patrick’s thighs at the same moment that Channing Tatum slides across a set of stools on the screen. Or at least, that’s what Patrick would be watching if his entire line of sight weren’t being swallowed up by David, the heat and hair and solid weight of him, grinding down on Patrick’s dick as he holds onto Patrick’s shoulder for enough leverage to cant his upper body away from Patrick’s. Patrick’s hands drift up the outside of David’s thighs, wrapping around his hips, fingers digging into the top of ass, and David smiles, full and radiant, and Patrick watches his lips mold around the words, “come and jump on it”. And God damn if Patrick’s dick doesn’t twitch in response, his hips bucking up as David grinds down again, the smallest sheen of sweat forming on his brow as he does a little side-to-sway move that forces his hips to switch directions, although David slows his pace so that the new movement scrapes across Patrick’s crotch at a different angle, which elicits a small hiss from between Patrick’s clenched teeth.

David leans forward and cups Patrick’s face in his hands, kissing him softly, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as his hips keep up the same filthy, dragging rhythm and his tongue swipes out into Patrick’s mouth. The song ends and the movie dialogue picks back up, but Patrick’s hands drift up to David’s waist and even without the song playing, he’s still moving, still grinding down on Patrick like he wants to fuck him through his clothes, and he doesn’t stop or say anything when Patrick’s palm drags across the front of his black sweatpants, his knuckles brushing against the damp spot already growing where David’s dick tents the thin fabric. 

“David,” Patrick says, a growl out of the back of his throat, and he’s suddenly way less tired, a thousand percent less stressed, can’t even remember  _ why  _ he was having a bad day — no day when David does an impromptu striptease in their living room could ever go on the list of bad days. It’s the thought that fills his head as David slides off his lap and pulls him to his feet, drags him to the bedroom and pushes him flat on his back, swallows him to the root and proceeds to hollow his cheeks and swallow around the length of Patrick until he’s coming in a single, incandescent shot of heat and white and stars: David makes it better. Whatever the ‘it’, however he needs to. If Patrick asks — and sometimes, most importantly, even when he doesn’t — David will always make it better.

And that’s a horse they can both ride into the sunset. 


End file.
